


A Strange Thing Happened on the Way to the Superhuman Summit

by Amuly



Category: Marvel 616, The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Background Relationships, Blow Jobs, First Time, First Time Blow Jobs, Gossip, Hook-Up, M/M, Minor Charles/Erik, Misunderstandings, Underwater Blow Jobs, medusa/black bolt - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-09
Updated: 2015-03-09
Packaged: 2018-03-17 04:22:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3515234
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amuly/pseuds/Amuly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It is the first annual superhuman world-leaders' diplomacy summit. Namor is an asshole, Erik won't shut up about Charles' asshole, T'Challa won't give Namor the time of day, and Black Bolt just desperately wishes that everyone else were as quiet as he was. Not to mention Doom Doom-ing, Mystique being far less mysterious than her name would suggest, and honestly Ka-Zar is just happy to be included.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Strange Thing Happened on the Way to the Superhuman Summit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [haisai_andagii](https://archiveofourown.org/users/haisai_andagii/gifts).



> This fic was written as a commission for haisai_andagii! This was pretty fun and not something I might have written normally, so thanks for the prompt! Commission me yourself at my writing tumblr, [amulywrites](http://amulywrites.tumblr.com/).

One Day Before

Tony watched the hoard descend upon one of his favorite hotels in the city. No longer. Mentally Tony took a note to never again grace the Waldorf Astoria with his presence. Not if they would be host to _that_ rabble. And especially not if-

“They didn’t even invite me!” Tony gesticulated wildly with one hand, the other fiddling with the resolution settings on his binoculars. “How could _I_ not score an invite?!”

“Because you don’t run a country?” Reed pointed out, somewhere behind him. Tony scoffed at the entirely accurate observation. At the front doors of the Astoria, Magneto floated in, Xavier's bald head gleaming in the late afternoon sunlight as his chair floated just behind him. Tony wondered what the hell kind of insurance policy the guests had to pay for to hold this conference at all.

“Still. You and I should be there. I mean, half the dickheads they’re populating this ‘conference’ with are Illuminati. We should-”

“So now what I hear you saying is you’re upset with Magneto, Victor, or Mystique for _not_ knowing about our secret cabal?”

“Don’t call us a ‘cabal’. It makes us sound like the Masters of Evil or something.” Half a city away, Namor stepped out of a town car. _Namor_. Tony growled and dropped the binoculars from his eyes. There was only so much insult one guy could take. He turned to Reed, who wasn’t even looking at him, naturally. His head was buried in a microscope, one arm stretched across the room to fumble with some beakers.

Tony jabbed a finger at Reed, even if he wouldn’t see it. “We should be there.”

“I really don’t feel like attending a conference where Victor is a keynote speaker,” Reed pointed out. He paused, then raised his head. “Or Namor, for that matter. I have a limit as to how many men I’m willing to sit in a room with who have, on multiple previous occasions, tried to steal one or more members of my family away from me.” Reed paused for a beat. “That limit is one. I can sit in the same room with exactly one of those men. No more.”

Tony waggled his eyebrows at Reed, though his heart wasn’t into it. “How do you tolerate meetings with both me and Namor, then? Sue is-”

“-Not even remotely interested,” a woman’s voice cut in.

Tony jumped, a touch guiltily, as a hologram of the woman herself appeared on Reed’s workstation.

“Reed? Dinner’s ready. You promised: family time.”

Snapping himself back into the proportions of a normal man, Reed stood up. “I did. Excuse me, Tony.”

Tony grumbled and hefted his binoculars back to his face. Reed snatched them away with a quick stretch. “Which means it’s time for you to go.”

Tony shot one last longing look out the window of the Baxter building. “But I can’t see the Waldorf from Avengers Tower.”

Gently Reed ushered Tony to his elevator. “It’s for the best. What would we have to contribute to a conference of superpowered world-leaders?”

“ _I’m_ a world-leader,” Tony grumbled.

“Industry-leader,” Reed corrected.

“In the twenty-first century doesn’t it amount to the same thing?”

The First Day

Namor sniffed as he stepped through the revolving doors of the Waldorf Astoria. He glanced around the lobby, observing the bag boys bustling to himself and the other illustrious guests that entered the gilded halls. A flash of light, and the Inhuman royal couple, Medusa and Black Bolt, appeared with their massive mutt. Namor eyed them warily as they petted the cur, who drooled all over their hands and the floor. Namor sniffed. The dog yapped once before it disappeared in a second flash of light, leaving the two Inhumans with their excessive bags and bellhops skittering around to help them.

Namor had exactly one bag himself, which he carried on his person. No need for an incompetent to lose it or mix-up his bag with someone else’s. He didn’t fancy having his luggage switched for Victor von Doom’s or Erik Lehnsherr (if that was indeed the name the mutant was going by these days).

One bag boy didn’t pick up on Namor’s standoffishness and rushed up, cap tilted precariously on his greasy blond head. “Can I take your-”

“You would do well to keep your lousy hands from my bags, child,” Namor told him.

The boy backed away without another word. Namor sniffed, then headed for the front desk.

“I am Namor the Submariner. King of Atlantis and the undersea realms.”

The woman behind the desk tapped at her computer, not trembling in the slightest. Namor raised an eyebrow at her as she worked steadily. “Of course Mr. Namor. Do you have a last name?”

“My name is Namor and that is what name will be on my reservation.”

The woman’s fingers didn’t even pause, still click-clacking away at the small black rectangle behind the desk. “Of course, Mr. Namor. One moment.”

Namor’s eyes narrowed. Before he could correct her repeated use of the common “Mister,” however, a voice to his left distracted him. It was a voice like liquid silk, softly accented and too familiar to him. “T’Challa, King of Wakanda.”

As Namor turned to his sometimes-acquaintance, the receptionist T’Challa had spoken to asked the same infernal question: “Last name?”

A furrow appeared between T’Challa’s eyebrows, just the smallest hint of consternation. “I am T’Challa, son of T’Chaka. My given name should suffice.”

Before Namor could step in and defend T’Challa’s dignity as masterfully as he did his own, he was distracted once more by his own receptionist clearing her throat. “Mr. Namor? Your room-”

“It’s _King Namor_ , you worthless cretin!” Namor snapped. He had already had just about enough of these mortals. Not only had they insulted himself and belittled the title given to him as his birthright, but they showed the same disrespect for his… fellow royalty.

The woman behind the desk seemed unfazed, smile steady. “King Namor, your room number is 1542. Here is your schedule of events as included in your summit invitation, as well as a summary of amenities the hotel has to offer. The gym and indoor pool are available twenty-four seven. Do you need one keycard or two?”

Namor snatched the packet out of her hand, fumbling with the tiny rectangle of plastic that was his room’s “key”. “I need only one. Please bother me no further. T’-”

Namor turned to speak with T’Challa, only to find he was already gone. He scanned the lobby dumbly, looking for any sign of him. But of course, if T’Challa wanted to disappear, then disappear he would. Namor snapped his mouth shut and strode away, decidedly not letting his eyes roam about the lobby, still hopelessly scanning for T’Challa.

When he reached the elevators, Namor stared at the buttons on the inside. There was a sixteenth floor. He looked at his key, wondering if he misheard the woman’s inane prattling from earlier. No, there it was in plain black surfacedweller-writing: 1542. _Fifteen_. Which meant someone was staying on a floor higher than Namor’s. The soft _ding_ of the elevator as it shut didn’t cover the sound of Namor grinding his teeth. Fiercely he jabbed at the number fifteen, accepting his humiliation for the time being. The button glowed, then dimmed. The elevator did not move. Frowning, Namor jammed his finger at the button again with the same result. Just as he was about to break the button with a third jab, the door _dinged_ again and slid open on the same lobby floor Namor had started on. Standing outside the elevator was Erik Lehnsherr and Charles Xavier (though the latter wasn't so much 'standing').

Namor stepped aside, still pondering the elevator buttons. Perhaps this one was broken. Surfacedweller technology had a habit of working poorly. He watched as Erik pulled out his keycard—fourteen something, _ha_!—and slid it into a slot above the buttons. Then he pressed the button for floor fourteen. It stayed lit.

Acting as cool as an arctic eel, Namor stepped forward and slid his card into the slot. Then he poked at the button for floor fifteen. It stayed lit. _Success_.

As Namor stepped back the elevator started upwards, light jazz playing to fill the silence. Namor stared straight ahead, pretending he couldn’t see Erik’s expression reflected in the metal doors. They rode the elevator in silence for the few seconds it took to reach floor fourteen. As the door chimed at slid open once more, Erik waited, allowing Charles in his chair to float from the elevator first. Then Erik stepped forward. Namor relaxed a touch. At least, he started to, until Erik turned and grinned toothily at him.

“Happy I could help.”

Namor snarled as Erik stepped off the elevator with a boisterous laugh. He held up his card at Erik even as the elevator doors started to slide shut. “I’m a floor above you, mutant-surfacedweller! Because some people in this world still understand respect!”

Erik’s laugh followed him as the door’s shut, interrupted only by a chiding “Was that _really-_ ” Namor threw himself against the back wall of the elevator with a snarl, ignoring how the force of his movement rattled the tiny metal box.

The room, Namor conceded, was nice enough. For a human room. The first thing he did was strip himself of his human clothes and turn on the faucet in the bathtub. From his one piece of luggage Namor pulled out a rock maybe half the size of his fist, purest white and glimmering in the dim light of the hotel room. It was a rock of the finest Atlantean sea salt. He carried a week’s worth with him in his bag—one of the many reasons he didn’t want a baggage boy fumbling around with and most likely losing his luggage. Atlantean sea salt was worth its weight in gold, and Namor would not be so easily parted with it.

He tossed the salt into the bath once it was full and warm enough, stirring it occasionally to dissolve it. Once the water was to his satisfaction Namor slipped into it, submerging himself entirely and closing his eyes. He sighed beneath the cooling waters, feeling the salt kiss his lips and gills. The confines of the ceramic tub were impossible to ignore all around him, but it was as close to home as he’d be able to enjoy for the next week. Namor curled up on his side, long legs tucked up towards his chest as he let the gentle waters soothe him as best they could.

* * *

Before dinnertime Namor managed to ascertain where the rest of the members of the conference were situated. There were indeed dignitaries above him, Victor von Doom to name one, Blackagar Boltagan and Medusa for the other. Erik Lehnsherr and Charles Xavier were situated the floor below him, though how Charles Xavier received an invitation was beyond Namor. He was king of no place, not even an invented nation like his compatriot in mutation, Lehnsherr. A mystery for another time. Ka-zar was with the mutants on their floor. On his same floor Namor had discovered with his superior Atlantean senses were T’Challa and Mystique.

As he walked back to his own rooms, intending to rest before wandering the hotel some more, a door clicked open behind him. Namor resisted the urge to attack, knowing that his tread was so soft it could only be a coincidence that someone opened their door as he passed. No one would have been able to hear his stride. No one, at least, except for the man who appeared out of his rooms at that exact moment.

“T’Challa,” Namor greeted him smoothly, not letting on how pleased he was to see him. “How were your travels?”

“Uneventful,” T’Challa replied shortly. Then, without another word, he strode past Namor and to the elevator lobby. Namor blinked and tamped down on the urge to hurry after him, trailing his heels like a lost flounder looking for his master.

Well. He’d see him at breakfast tomorrow morning, surely. T’Challa was most likely exhausted from his travels—he had much further to traverse than Namor, and only a surfacedweller constitution to sustain him. Namor flicked his fingers mockingly at T’Challa’s back and returned to his own rooms. The morning, then.

The First Night

Namor slipped into the pool with a sigh—after checking once to be sure no one else was around. The water, although they had drained it and refilled it with fresh water in anticipation of his arrival, still stung of chlorine. Once water filled a basin with that foul chemical in it, not even the purest Atlantean water could cover the stench chlorine left in the place, seeped into the stone and ceramic. Still, the water almost felt like home against his skin, soothing and calm. Larger than the bathtub, he had room to move and swim, as was his natural state. He felt some of the tension inside his chest ease as he relaxed into it, cutting through the water as he moved from one end to the other in seconds, then back again. He lost himself swimming laps under water, circling and circling as he let his mind clear.

After long, long minutes Namor surfaced, blinking the chlorine from his eyes and gills. As his vision cleared he noticed movement in the gym, separated from the pool only by a clear pane of glass. Floating down the length of the pool, Namor positioned himself until he had a good view of the interior of the gym.

It was T’Challa, moving through different poses. Namor watched as he shifted from a defensive stance, to a block, to a counter, to an offensive strike. He didn’t move hurriedly, setting each pose before moving fluidly to the next. Namor sank lower in the water, wondering when he would be found out. Because it wasn’t a matter of if, but when, with a warrior as attuned to his surroundings as T’Challa. If he didn’t know Namor watched him already.

The fluidity present in T’Challa’s movements was something to admire, especially coming from a surfacedweller. Aside from Steve Rogers, who was gifted with powers at the very cusp of human capabilities, T’Challa was the only surfacedweller who could come close to besting Namor in combat. Certainly he was one of the very few humans who Namor would trust by his side in battle; his kingdom was even one Namor would think twice before invading. But only twice—for all his skill and his people’s warrior hearts, he was still human.

T’Challa finished his aerobics after a few long minutes, Namor quietly treading water and watching. He scooped up a towel and slung it around his neck before exiting the gym, through a door on the opposite side from the pool. Namor sighed and ducked his head beneath the water, breathing deep the abrasive taste of the chlorine-stained waters. Namor blew a string of bubbles from his nose as he resumed his laps around the cement trap.

The Second Day

The seating at breakfast the next morning was… havoc. Namor sneered disdainfully at the front-most table, where Victor had taken up residence at the head. Because of course he had. Pointedly Namor sat himself at an altogether different table. It was a wonder the hotel hadn’t planned ahead for them and remodeled some of their furnishings. A round table would not have been amiss under such circumstances. Namor watched as Black Bolt and Medusa took their place at a third table, separate from Victor and Namor. The three heads of their own states stared at each other from across the dining hall, empty chairs a sorry stand-in for obedient citizens. Medusa’s hair twitched irascibly.

Erik and Charles were next, looking wholly unbothered by the stand-off underway in the dining hall. They took their seat with the Inhumans, Erik chivalrously pulling a chair out from the table so Charles could maneuver his own chair in place. Namor listened as Erik greeted Medusa like she was an old friend. Though, of course: they were in-laws, acquaintances through their children’s marriage. Namor sniffed and sipped at the ice water that had appeared before his dishes. The humans did well to show deference to their betters, at least. And Namor supposed he couldn’t begrudge them choosing the table occupied by their relations.

Just as servants scurried around Namor’s table, setting a bowl of fruit and cold meats before him as a first course, T’Challa entered the dining room. Namor perked up, eyeing his fellow king. Which table would he chose? Surely he would stop by Namor’s table at the least, to greet him. Perhaps he would greet Xavier first, since their table was closer to the door.

T’Challa did greet Xavier, and Black Bolt. Words were exchanged—at least on the part of Xavier and T’Challa. Black Bolt obviously said nothing, though Medusa inclined her head and greeted the Wakandan King. T’Challa straightened and continued through the room. Namor waited, allowing the smallest smile to creep over his lips.

T’Challa… stopped at Victor’s table. _Doom’s_. Namor stared, more confused than angry. Why was T’Challa stopping by Doom’s table? Namor watched in increasing bafflement as T’Challa spoke to Doom, civility apparently reigning. What was the meaning of this? What game did T’Challa play? What game did _Doom_ play?

After a minute with the world’s most unlovable dictator, T’Challa nodded his head and moved along. Namor shoved a handful of shrimp into his mouth, eyes narrowed as he watched T’Challa’s graceful movements through the room. He tracked T’Challa as he strode towards Namor… and then continued past his table. Namor blinked.

It wasn’t that T’Challa settled at his own table—he was a king, Namor understood what kings must do. It was that T’Challa hadn’t looked in his direction at _all_ , hadn’t once glanced at him, hadn’t faltered on his way past Namor in the slightest hesitation of recognition. Namor gaped.

Ka-zar came in shortly after, followed by Mystique. She settled herself alongside Xavier, giggling devilishly at how stiff Erik grew with her presence. Namor scoffed and returned his attention to his plate, which was now full of food. At least the servants they employed at this hotel seemed to know a thing or two about feeding their guests appropriately. He most certainly did not keep his eyes trained on T’Challa the entire meal, burning a hole through the back of his short-cropped head with the intensity of his gaze.

* * *

Namor poked at the flimsy human conference table. “ _This_ is where they expect us to hold our summit?” At least the table was round.

Doom seated himself at the only place that could arguably be considered the “head” of the round table. His gauntleted fists settled heavily on the plastic tabletop. “If you wanted to experience true luxury, befitting of men of our stature, we should have held this at the Latvarian embassy.”

Erik snorted as he pushed passed Namor to take his own seat. “This is _neutral ground_. You wouldn’t be so quick to agree to a summit on Genoshian soil, would you?”

Doom’s laughter echoed around his helmet. “Not because it is not neutral, but because it is a miserable island, populated by miserable subhumans.”

Erik’s eyes narrowed as he took his seat, countenance brimming with hatred. “Strong words coming from a man covered in metal.”

“You think Doom comes unprepared? Doom has dampening fields to block your pitiful, unearned ‘powers’.”

Erik’s eyes narrowed, then widened. Namor raised his eyebrows. Well, apparently Doom _did_.

Before an actual fight could break out, T’Challa stepped smoothly forward. He had changed from casual clothes into royal Wakandan attire, suited to greeting foreign dignitaries… or arguing with them. Namor’s eyes lingered on T’Challa’s dark, smooth skin as he slipped past him. It didn’t escape Namor’s notice that T’Challa didn’t look his way.

“Erik, where is Dr. Xavier? Should we wait for him?” Medusa asked.

The mention of his shadow at least served to improve Erik’s mood considerably. He smiled silkily as he relaxed back into the ergonomic rolling chair the hotel provided. “He retired back to our room. He’s not here as a head of state. And he could use the rest.” Erik grinned toothily, daring anyone to misunderstand exactly why Charles would require extra rest this morning. Luckily, everyone understood perfectly.

They took their seats, ordered by little placards on the table. Doom, then Ka-zar in his apparently formal loin cloth? Namor scoffed. At least he himself had worn a vest for the meeting, resplendent in glimmering black fish scales and cut deeply down the center. A uniform more befitting a summit of world leaders than… a sabertooth tiger kilt, which was what Ka-zar appeared to be sporting, near as Namor could tell.

Seated next was Erik, followed by T’Challa, then Black Bolt, and Medusa just on Namor’s right. Mystique settled in on Namor’s left, actually dressed, for once, in the highest of earthly fashion. She waggled her fingers at Erik across the table, grinning toothily at him. Erik seemed to be out done.

“Is there anywhere in particular we should start?” Medusa asked. “Or rather, any one we should start with?”

“Doom demands the floor,” Victor declared, slamming his fist onto the table. Namor sighed and rested his chin on his hand. This was going to be a long meeting.

While Doom pontificated whatever it was Doom enjoyed pontificating, Namor’s eyes slid over to where T’Challa sat, just as noticeably bored as he was. A smile flitted across Namor’s face as he tried to get T’Challa’s attention. Surely that moment at breakfast had been some sort of fluke—perhaps T’Challa hadn’t wanted to appear weak before the other heads of state, perhaps he didn’t want to appear biased. But now, while everyone’s attention was on Doom (or as far from Doom as they could manage while seated at the same table)…

Namor raised his eyebrows at T’Challa, trying to get his attention. He clicked his tongue once or twice, thinking that might work but still remain unnoticed by most the table. T’Challa stared straight ahead, not exactly focused on Doom but most definitely _not_ focused on Namor. Stretching his leg out as far as he could, Namor searched blindly beneath the table for T’Challa’s foot. He found something he was fairly certain was it, then kicked it lightly. T’Challa didn’t move, but Erik did: turning to look at Namor with a raised eyebrow. Namor flushed and glared at him, adjusting himself in his chair in an attempt to play the movement off as accidental. Erik’s smile grew, until he had the audacity to lick his lips and _wink_ at him. Namor shuddered and looked away, refocusing his attention on Doom for lack of anything else. Blast it all.

He would just have to get T’Challa’s attention at lunch and assuage whatever negative feelings T’Challa was harboring against him. Surely they would be able to settle this dispute like the kings of men they were.

* * *

They took lunch at the round table, for lack of a solution to the debacle of the seating situation that morning. Namor poked at his fish. It was actually raw, to his surprise, though garnished and assembled in the strangest, most ornate ways. He wondered if this was some sort of attempt to cater to his tastes as he plucked a little cylinder of fish and seaweed up from his plate. It was fairly fresh—as fresh as he could expect from surfacedwellers, at least. He popped it into his mouth and chewed. Farm-bred, unfortunately. Ah, well. He had been expecting cooked fish at the best, so this was at least an improvement on his expectations.

“It's called sushi,” Mystique explained. Leaning over the table with two small sticks, she deftly plucked a cylinder of fish from his plate and stole it away. Namor's mouth dropped open at the audacity of it all. “It's pretty new. For New York,” Mystique continued. Her conniving mouth chomped around food that was rightfully Namor's.

“You hideous-” Namor started. Until a cool hand pressed down on his shoulder, holding him in place.

Namor looked up, blinking once at the impassive face of T'Challa staring down at him. As Namor's mouth dropped open, something moved beneath his field of vision, passing between himself and the table. He looked down to watch T'Challa place a slice of meat on his dish. It was ornately garnished: a perfectly cut piece of red meat set on top of a green leaf, sprinkled with some yellow sauce and green and red embellishments resting on top. Namor stared at it.

“Try this antelope-flank. It is a Wakandan staple, and quite adequately prepared by the chefs here.”

T'Challa was back in his seat as quickly as he had arisen, leaving Namor with his offering of cooked meat on his plate.

“We Atlanteans don't normally eat cooked meats,” Namor explained as he peered down at the steak.

T'Challa shrugged one shoulder, already back to cutting up his remaining pieces of stake at his seat. “It will not offend me if you do not try it. I understand the differences in our palettes.”

“No, I can-” Snapping his mouth shut, Namor picked up his fork and knife. He cut off a bite-sized piece and ate it before he could talk himself out of it. The meat tasted... burnt, to his tongue, but that was to be expected. All cooked food of surfacedwellers tasted burnt to his tongue. But beneath the char, there was some enjoyable flavor to the meat. He nodded diplomatically over at T'Challa.

“Not to my natural tastes, but palatable nonetheless.”

T'Challa said nothing outside of a small, one-shouldered shrug. Namor watched him eat, strong lines of his jaw expanding and contracting as he chewed, dark skin glimmering in the artificial lights of the meeting room. As the conversation around them picked up again, Namor forced himself to draw his eyes away from the other man and focus on his own plate, and the other dignitaries in the room. Didn't want to show any favoritism, after all.

“Well that was a lovely meal,” Erik declared as the servants took their plates away. “Though I'm more looking forward to taking our meals separately tonight. Charles has a little place he's apparently dying to show me.”

Namor, along with most the rest of the table, rolled his eyes at Erik's uncouth bragging. Honestly, so the man had a mate. He was the head of a nation—if Genosha was as great as he claimed, he should have the pick of men or women. The fact that he was so proud of his conquest did more to show the weakness of his leadership than its strength.

 _Clang, bang!_ A clatter as the servants moved from the room, one of them moving less gracefully than the others. Namor's gaze fell upon the culprit: a young boy, already dropped to his hands and knees as he tried to gather up the dropped silverware from the floor. Not quickly enough.

“You insolent _child_! Have you not even the capacity for proper servitude or does that prove more worthy than your pathetic abilities?”

“That's _enough_ , Namor.”

Namor twitched, turning back to look at T'Challa, who was as coldly furious as Namor had ever seen him. Namor's tongue stuck in his mouth, taken aback. What had he done?

“The boy-” Namor started to explain.

“Is gone.”

T'Challa was right. Still...

“I don't-”

T'Challa turned sharply away from Namor, gaze settling on _Mystique_ , of all people. “Ma'am, did Madripoor have concerns they wished to raise at this summit?”

“They did indeed,” Mystique purred, eyes flickering to Namor. T'Challa's actions were not lost on her, nor anybody in the room. Namor's jaw clicked shut.

But what had he _done_?

* * *

As they walked to the elevator that evening Namor positioned himself until he was sure to end up in T'Challa's group. Unfortunately Erik also maneuvered into joining them on the elevator. As they each slid their keycards into the slot, Erik grinned toothily at Namor. “Getting the hang of things now, are we?”

Namor sniffed as he tucked his keycard back into his pocket. “Much the same way you would have to get used to starting fires with two sticks. It is not my fault I am not current with ancient surfacedweller technology.”

Erik twinkled his fingers at Namor as he stepped off the elevator at his floor. Namor shook his head as Erik's door opened before he even reached it, Charles sitting behind it in his chair, beaming up at him. Luckily the elevator doors closed before the two men inside would have to be subjected to any more of Erik's quite public affair with his former antagonist.

Alone at last with T'Challa, Namor found himself at a loss of what to say. He opened and shut his mouth so many times he feared he would resemble a beached fish gasping for air, so he stopped. As the elevator _dinged_ their floor, Namor forced himself to say something. Anything at all, before he lost his chance.

“Do you suppose this summit will do any good, in the end?” he mused as they strolled off the elevator together.

T'Challa said nothing, walking straight towards his room. Doing his best to seem like he was just walking the same direction and not _chasing_ his fellow king (which he _was:_ just walking the same direction, that is. Their rooms were adjacent), Namor tried again. “Victor was in fine form today, as-”

“I am not interested in speaking with you, Submariner,” T'Challa cut in stiffly.

Namor blinked. “Excuse me?”

T'Challa's words were cool, his face impassive. “I will not speak to you again except through an intermediary. Good night.”

Namor stared after T’Challa, baffled by his display. What had he done? What slight had he made against T’Challa or Wakanda to make her king speak to him so?

Namor almost called out after his former acquaintance, but T'Challa was already slipping into his rooms, door clicking softly shut behind him. Namor stared, aghast. What could he have possibly done? Shame flushed his cheeks as he quickly mustered up the proper indignant response befitting a king. It didn't matter what he had _done_. How _dare_ T'Challa speak to his fellow royalty in such a manner! Namor would be sure to hold it against him for the rest of the summit.

Though, as Namor strode into his own rooms, indignation slipped from his chest as easily as grains of sand on the seashore. He could harbor no long-lasting hatred towards T'Challa. He just wanted to know _what he had done._

The Third Day

Medusa was engaged in conversation with Erik. Stuffing his pride, Namor seated himself next to Black Bolt.

“T’Challa doesn’t wish to speak to me,” he explained without preamble.

Black Bolt looked at him.

“I didn’t _do_ anything,” Namor protested. He pressed a hand to his chest. “What could I have done? Our countries are at peace, our people are prosperous. There’s even room for a trade agreement, if he would be interested. Which I—apparently _misguidedly_ —presumed was the purpose of this whole farce! What benefit could T’Challa get from not speaking with me?”

Black Bolt peered at him.

Namor rushed ahead, sweat pricking ignored at his hairline. “If anything, it is a _detriment_ to him and his people not to speak with me. I am Namor, King of Atlantis! Would he risk war with Atlantis over a personal grudge? Surely not. T’Challa is more honor-bound than even you or I. His people come first and his own needs and desires last.”

Black Bolt stared at him.

Namor stiffened. “Unless this somehow _is_ in the service of his people? Unless for some reason it is to Wakanda’s benefit for him to disassociate himself with me? But surely not. What alliances could he have made that would require him to do something a thing? Because it could only be an alliance, couldn’t it. The normal operations of Wakanda would have no reason to disaffiliate themselves with Atlantis. Has he spoken to someone without my knowledge? Aligned himself to someone such as… such as _Doom_ , or that she-bitch Mystique…”

A snort, from across the table. Erik was looking at him, bemused. Namor sneered and turned back to Black Bolt.

“Surely that must be it. But perhaps we would keep our mouths shut for the time being, yes? Consider our options, wait and listen. You have the right idea of it. Then, once we discern exactly what misfortunate alliance T’Challa has fallen into, we can extricate him from it in the most diplomatic manner.”

Black Bolt looked to his wife, eyes silently pleading. Neither Namor nor Medusa gave any sign that they noticed.

Namor’s fingers drummed on the table as he watched the room. T’Challa seated himself at his own table, eating fruits and breakfast meats provided to him. There weren’t many people here. Namor should be able to easily ascertain which guest had poisoned T’Challa against him. And then Namor could deal with the problem himself. Diplomatically… or not.

* * *

“I do not think it would be wise to discount AIM, although they do not have representatives here,” T’Challa mused. “What they lack in recognition they more than make up for in technology. Given time to gather more respectability, they may one day rival Wakanda in technological strength.”

“You don’t think they do already?” Mystique teased, teeth sharp.

Not likely her, then. Namor tapped Black Bolt on his arm and shook his head. Black Bolt shifted his body away, towards his wife.

“I agree with the spirit of what T’Challa proposes, though not the specifics,” Doom announced.

Namor tapped Black Bolt’s arm fiercely. “Did you hear that? Did you?” he whispered too loudly.

Black Bolt shifted further away from him. By the time they broke for lunch he was almost wholly in Medusa’s lap.

* * *

Erik nodded magnanimously at T’Challa. Namor tapped Black Bolt’s arm, hard.

Ka-zar and T’Challa shared a laugh. Namor tapped Black Bolt’s arm harder.

Medusa smiled and nodded at T’Challa, who smiled back. Namor almost climbed over Black Bolt’s lap to get at her. He was only stopped by Black Bolt’s strong hand coming down on his bicep, holding him fast in his chair.

“I would not put a secret alliance past you!” Namor hissed.

Black Bolt stared at him so disdainfully even Namor felt the force of such a withering stare. To some small degree. He shrugged Black Bolt’s hand off him and sat back in his seat. He did still keep an eye on Medusa, though.

* * *

When Namor sat down alongside Black Bolt for dinner, Black Bolt actually shook his head and stood up. While Namor gaped up at him, Black Bolt gently took his wife by the shoulders, put her in his seat, and settled down on the other side of her. Namor blinked as he found himself seated next to Medusa.

“Good evening, King Namor.” Medusa inclined her head diplomatically. “Lovely day of discussions, wouldn’t you agree?”

“I…” Namor was still staring at Black Bolt, who was relaxing in his new seat, eyes sliding blissfully closed. He cocked his head at Black Bolt. “I…”

Medusa laid a gentle hand on his forearm, smiling disarmingly. “You know, there were a few matters of trade between Atlantis and Attilan I would be interested in discussing with you, either this evening or tomorrow. We don’t have to make it a public matter if you wouldn’t wish, although I have no compunctions against it. The secrecy or not of Attilan and Atlantis’ agreements would be entirely in your hands.”

“I…” Slowly Namor found his attention being drawn from Black Bolt, and T’Challa, and into the proposition Medusa was making him. “I… would be interested in hearing about this,” he agreed after a moment, tearing his eyes away from Black Bolt at last. Medusa’s eyes were narrowed cunningly as she smiled at him. Namor raised an eyebrow. “What sorts of trade did you have in mind, exactly?”

The Fourth Day

Namor took his designated place at the round conference table, eyeing up the others who were already there. Erik was seated comfortably by a window, Charles absent from his side as he was at all the actual summits. Black Bolt was to his right, Medusa on _his_ right, hair flowing loose behind her. There were two empty seats, and then Namor’s. He glanced at the placards between himself and the Inhumans: T’Challa was next to Medusa, then Ka-zar next to Namor. As nonchalantly as he could, Namor switched the two cards around. He didn’t look up to see if he had been noticed.

T’Challa entered before Ka-zar, eyes scanning the table until he saw his nameplate. Namor studiously looked down at the table, pretending to study the inferior human craftsmanship that went into construction such a flimsy device of pasted together wood particulate and cheap plastic coating. As he ducked his head down, pretending to focus on the strip of rubber that was already peeling up along the edge of the table, T’Challa strode past him to his placard. Namor carefully controlled his muscles, making sure he didn’t tense in any noticeable way. Calmly, T’Challa took his seat… next to Medusa. He reached out with long fingers and flipped the placards around to their original positions. Namor’s jaw clenched. He couldn’t have _known_.

The meeting proceeded excruciatingly dully, until finally the attention turned to Namor.

“And what of your concerns for your people?” Medusa asked. “What is it you desire?”

Namor had been staring at T’Challa all morning. It was a mystery he couldn’t solve, a slight against himself he would _not_ tolerate. He was a _king_ , and he demanded to be treated as such!

“My desire is that T’Challa raises his pompous head and looks me in the eye!” Namor growled.

The room fell silent as T’Challa, startled from his forced inattention, did exactly that. Their eyes met, and Namor sneered.

“ _Now_ you look at me.”

T’Challa’s jaw clenched. “I do not know-”

Namor slapped his hand down on the surface of the flimsy table in frustration. It shook beneath his blow. “By the seahorses of Atlantis, you _do_ know!”

The tension between the two men was palpable. Most in the room stayed silent, except of course those who couldn’t help themselves.

“Is this a lover’s quarrel?” Erik asked, grin quirking at the corners of his mouth. “It seems we should have brought in marriage counselors rather than-”

“We _know_ , you're fucking Xavier, Magnus. We _all know_ ,” Mystique exclaimed, throwing her hands up.

T'Challa was still staring at Namor, nothing seeming to penetrate that placid gaze. Namor slammed his hand down on the table again, feeling the cheap plastic splinter threateningly beneath his palm. “You answer me, King! What quarrel is there between us?”

“There is no quarrel. Wakanda wishes to broker no relations with Atlantis.”

“This is a _lie_ ,” Namor hissed, jabbing a finger at T'Challa. “This is far more than just an absence of trade. This is an _embargo_.”

“Wakanda has no embargo on Atlantean goods,” T'Challa replied. But his cool demeanor was cracking. Much like the table.

“Do you deny that you told me last night you would speak to me no more?” Namor challenged.

A muscle in T'Challa's jaw jumped. After a long pause he replied. “I do not deny this.”

Erik rocked back in his seat, tittering gleefully. A sharp _rap_! to his skull from a bright-red lock of hair kept him from saying anything further.

Namor grinned sharply at T’Challa, ignoring whatever else was going on at the table in favor of this one man. This one man whose honor would not allow him to lie, only obfuscate and dissemble.

“Then what? Speak! I command that-”

“Command me to do _nothing_ , Atlantean!” T’Challa roared, jumping up from his seat. His fist slammed into the already-cracked table, further weakening it. Everyone still seated, save Doom, unsurreptitiously rolled their chairs back from the table.

Namor startled in the face of T’Challa’s vitriol, straightening as he forced himself to refrain from taking a step back. He had wished to crack that calm veneer, and that he had done. But to what unwelcome results?

“I desire to know the nature of our quarrel,” Namor explained, suddenly seeking calm now that T’Challa was not.

“Then look no further than yourself, oh King of Atlantis,” T’Challa spat.

Namor’s fingers twitched, desire to move to action warring with his shock at T’Challa’s anger.

“Myself?”

The word echoed in the silent room, bouncing between Namor and T’Challa, sounding more and more pleading with each reverberation. Namor hated how it sounded, how he knew it sounded, but refused to take it back. T’Challa wanted him humbled, maybe? Then perhaps the word, and the tone it was said in, might help.

But no. Stiffly T’Challa inclined his head at the rest of the room. “My apologies. Excuse me, it seems I must retire for the afternoon. Good evening.”

With that, T’Challa took his leave. Namor stared after him, fingers touching and falling apart, touching and falling apart, in a pathetic plea to grab for T’Challa, to pull him back, to get an explanation. Or maybe even apologize—if he only knew what for.

“Well.” It was Ka-zar, all but forgotten, who broke the silence. With a shrug he tapped at the table, rapping his knuckles against it just once. It crashed to the floor, breaking clean down the middle. He smiled at the other members of the summit. “I’d say we all take the rest of the afternoon off. At least to give the hotel time to replace the table.”

Namor stormed from the room, though his footfalls were decidedly more confused than angry. As he reached his and T’Challa’s floor, Namor considered the other man’s room, wondering if he could mend things. A tap on his door, a conversation in private, perhaps could soothe flared tempers? For a long moment Namor stared at the room, wings on his heels fluttering indecisively. Finally he shook his head and turned away, for his own rooms. T’Challa was truly irate with him. And until Namor had something of value to bring to T’Challa, there was no use trying to convince the proud King to forgive him whatever slight he had committed against him. The door clicked shut behind Namor as he hurried for his bath, salt spheres already clutched tight in hand.

The Fourth Night

Namor swam, and swam, and swam, and swam. The water rushed past him as he reached speeds nearly dangerous in such a small, short pool. Still he swam, pushing his speed as high as he dared, cutting the corners closer and closer with every pass. In the surfacedweller’s world, he heard a door open and shut, echoing through the concrete room the pool was in. Namor swam, and swam, and swam as he listened to almost inaudible footsteps approach one edge of the pool. The steps were measured, almost metronomic. Namor swam, and swam. And stopped, as a pair of pair feet slipped into the water, kicking lightly.

He surfaced, water skimming off his hair and face, eyes blinking clear after once, twice. The chlorine remnants stung his gills and his eyes, but he ignored the sensation, resisting the urge to rub at what were surely red eyes.

T’Challa sat there, in plains clothes. He had on a black t-shirt and blue jeans, rolled up under his knee. His legs swung gently over the side of the pool, dark skin blending into the nearly black water.

“My King,” Namor tried, inclining his head.

To his surprise, T'Challa sighed and let his head fall back, staring at the black ceiling of the unlit pool room. After a moment he breathed: “I am not your king.”

“No,” Namor agreed. He tread water, watching T'Challa carefully, reading every inch of his body language for some hints as to how to proceed. “But you are my fellow.”

“That is no great honor to me,” T'Challa told him.

Namor waited, reigning-in his temper. T'Challa was here for a reason, and surely that reason wasn't just to insult him.

Sure enough, after a long moment T'Challa continued: “I owe you an explanation. Or, perhaps don't, but I wish to give it, anyway.”

“I will listen,” Namor promised, curiosity beating at his chest like a sunfish caught in a man o' war's tentacles. Before its paralyzing toxin went to work.

T'Challa took a breath, only tell his feet still swinging gently in the water. “You treat others with the utmost disdain. You barely tolerate the men and women you consider your equals, and you treat those you consider beneath you worse than the lowest worm. Or sea-slug.”

Namor hesitated. After a moment he shut his mouth and swam closer to T'Challa, treading water quietly.

T'Challa continued: “European nations have a history of treating African nations as little better than savages, barbarians, slaves. Although Wakanda's resources and technology are great enough to garner some respect from the other human countries of this world, there is still an undercurrent of disrespect, one which goes far deeper than even our vibranium mines can reach. I must tolerate such disrespect every day I find myself in the presence of other leaders of nations, no matter if their nation is lesser than mine.”

“I do not treat you this way,” Namor asserted, but quietly.

T'Challa shook his head. “You do not. You treat me exactly as you treat anyone else you begrudgingly accept as an equal. Perhaps even better, with your affection for me.”

“I hold no-” Namor started, trying to scoff. But T'Challa just raised one hand, and Namor fell silent.

“Atlantis does not follow the same racism as the Europeans or Americans do. But you do not treat your lessers kindly.”

“They are my lessers,” Namor pointed out.

“Many think the same of me and my people.”

Namor fell silent. Although he could not bring himself to agree with T'Challa's point, he understood now where he had misstepped around his fellow king. His outburst at the front desk over their titles, rather than endearing T'Challa to him, had only served to push T'Challa away. Snapping at the servant boy who dropped their utensils. Namor watched the water swirl and eddy around him.

After a long moment's consideration, Namor ducked beneath the water. He resurfaced by T'Challa's legs, turning so he was facing the same direction as the surfacedweller. Namor could feel the heat from T'Challa's legs at this distance, feel the way they sent small ripples through the water. He focused on that as he began to speak.

“I do not know if you have ever heard the story of my mixed heritage,” he began.

A moment until T'Challa realized Namor expected him to answer.

“I... have heard rumors.”

“You speak of skin color, the reason the other surfacedweller nations do not consider your country an equal. I too was born the wrong color.”

“You are not blue like the other Atlantians, yes,” T'Challa agreed.

“My father was a surfacedweller. A ship captain. My mother, for a reason utterly lost to me, had an affair with him. I was born of their union: pink-skinned, lesser than the rest of my people. But expected to become their king, through blood.”

“And you did,” T'Challa pointed out. “You are.”

“Not easily won,” Namor confided in him. “Nor kept.”

“This is not an excuse,” T'Challa told him. “You treat lessers as the lowest of cretins, and your tolerance of equals is barely better. If you have suffered similar prejudices, your actions should be much the opposite.”

A sharp stab of _something—_ surely not guilt, surely not _shame—_ went through Namor's chest. He ignored it. “Not all of us can be as good of men as you.”

Namor's temple brushed against T'Challa's leg. Or perhaps it was the other way around.

T'Challa sighed. “Kings do not have time to be good men. We leave such matters to the heroes, like your friend Captain Rogers. The most we can ever hope to be is fair, and just. That is all I ask.”

“ _Captain Rogers_...” Namor breathed. “Ah, but there is a reminder of my failures as a diplomat, is it not?”

T’Challa hummed in question, though he waited without speaking a word for Namor to continue. After a moment, he did.

“Among my people I am no hero, no full-blooded Atlantean, and barely a king. Among the surfacedwellers I am a king, but no hero. Among Captain Rogers, I was… something. An Invader, as we styled ourselves. A team of heroes, but with at least one member decidedly less heroic than the others. Perhaps they overlooked it because Captain Rogers had enough heroism to make up for my shortcomings.”

“Heroes save the world. Rulers run it,” T’Challa told him.

“And yet…” Namor sighed. His right hand came up to grasp at T’Challa’s ankle, long fingers wrapping lightly around the soft skin. T’Challa didn’t move away. Namor stroked at the bare, wet skin, pensive.

“I am outside of my people, outside of heroes… I couldn’t even win the affections of the one surfacedweller woman I deemed worthy of my attention. She chose a man of no political power, of no true physical prowess—not one that could rival mine, at the least. A man with powers which are more novelty than true strength.”

“With such an appealing attitude it is a wonder you could not,” T’Challa remarked dryly.

Namor’s mouth twisted as he repeated his own words back to himself, trying to filter them through the moral criterion T’Challa held.

“Ah, well.”

A long moment as Namor considered how to correct for his mistake. The water bobbed gently around them as he tread water, one hand still gently placed around T’Challa’s ankle. Finally, Namor murmured: “I deemed you worthy.”

T’Challa sighed, though there was no fire to the noise. Just quiet… something.

“That is not the right answer,” he replied.

Turning around so he could look up at the Wakandan King, Namor said, with as much humility as he could muster: “It is the best answer I can give.”

A pause, a held breath. Then a splash as T’Challa pushed himself off the edge and slid down the wall, level with Namor. He kissed Namor without hesitation, pulling him in fiercely. Namor went, arms wrapping around T’Challa and keeping them both afloat with ease.

T’Challa broke the kiss long enough to tell Namor: “These actions are not on behalf of Wakanda,” he clarified. “These actions are the actions of T’Challa, son of T’Chaka. Not T’Challa, King of Wakanda.”

Namor kissed him again, swimming forward just enough to press T’Challa gently against the edge of the pool. “And these actions are of Namor, son of Fen and Leonard McKenzie, not the King of Atlantis.” Namor kissed him one more time, then nodded at the edge of the pool. “Now you would do well to hold onto something. You do not swim as well as I.”

T’Challa’s eyes narrowed as he surely wondered whether to take insult at that or not. But then Namor let himself float down, beneath the surface of the water, and he felt T’Challa’s body relax against his in acceptance.

Namor made quick work of T’Challa’s jeans, working the primitive button and zipper open. There was another layer of material beneath, some sort of skin-tight miniature pant. Namor tugged them down as well, moving them down T’Challa’s thighs until he had freed what he sought. T’Challa was long and thick—thicker perhaps than Namor’s own member, though Namor wasn’t interested in the comparison (at the moment). The echoes of chlorine stung his gills as he breathed through them. His hand ran over T'Challa a few times, coaxing his length turgid before taking it into his mouth. Beneath him, T’Challa’s legs kicked a little as he set to work, lips carefully curled around his sharp teeth, tongue sliding around the sensitive head.

It was with pride that Namor observed T’Challa’s stomach muscles tense, could sense his arms tensing as he worked to hold himself up on the edge of the pool. Namor wrapped one hand around T’Challa’s back, kneading at the strong, powerful muscles in his buttocks. He delighted in the way T’Challa’s feet kicked again as his fingers slipped down the crack, teasing before pulling away. There was a power in this, different from the type Namor would normally pursue. Different power, but no less.

Without the need to break for air, T’Challa was tensing beneath him in minutes, legs twitching feebly out of frustration, arousal, eagerness. Reaching up with one hand, Namor tweaked at one dark nipple, then the other. T’Challa’s length twitched in his mouth, and a faint flavor different from the tainted water met Namor’s tongue. He hummed, taking T’Challa deeper into his mouth, down his throat. He had heard rumor that this was an extraordinary skill, from bawdy wartime campfire tales he never participated in. He did not consider it such, but apparently it was. He could hear T’Challa’s groan through even the sound-dampening effect of the water. Namor swallowed around his length, tongue working the shaft relentlessly. He pulled back as he sensed T’Challa was close, jerking him roughly in his fist. Surely enough, T’Challa spilled his release into the water, to be washed away by the filtration systems in a matter of minutes. Namor surfaced, shaking the water from his eyes. How he did hate chlorine.

T’Challa was breathing hard before him, muscles bulging with tension as he still gripped the edge of the pool. Taking pity on him, Namor reached forward and scooped him up, holding him in his arms as they floated, buoyed by Namor’s natural abilities. T’Challa sighed shakily into Namor’s neck, then pulled back to kiss him once more. Namor accepted the kiss readily, own body desiring release now as well.

“Would it be disagreeable for you to adjourn to a bed?” T’Challa asked him. “Only, it is as you said: I am _not_ as skilled a swimmer as you.”

Namor blinked, then smiled. He had never… people did not take his biology into consideration like that. Not surfacedwellers. Not even Steve Rogers had ever asked Namor about a preference, only taking his biology into account when it gave the Invaders an advantage at sea. Namor’s brows drew together as he tried to shake the fierce gratitude that overtook him. He leaned in for a kiss in the hopes of covering his emotions, though he supposed not much could be kept from a man as perceptive as T’Challa.

“No. A bed would not be ill-met,” Namor told him. After a moment, because he knew T’Challa would appreciate the display of vulnerability, he admitted: “The chlorine stings my gills and eyes if I stay in it too long. A bed would actually be preferable. For the time being.”

Surely enough, T’Challa smiled warmly at him, before kissing him again. Namor licked at his lips, pool water running over T'Challa's skin almost enough to make the waters taste like home.

The Fifth Morning

Namor slid into a seat next to Erik, causing the mutant to startle. His eyes narrowed quickly as he recovered, scanning Namor for some sort of treachery. “Yes?”

“I just wanted to make sure you and Charles had a pleasant night's sleep,” Namor declared, teeth sharp and grin broad. “Only, I know you've both had such tiring nights this summit, so I really should have been more courteous last night.”

“Last night...” Erik frowned, eyes flickering over to Charles'. Charles, through either illicit means or simple intuition, had already caught on, judging by how his eyes widened. After a long look exchanged between the two, Erik's expression suddenly clouded over.

“We slept just fine, thank you,” Erik replied stiffly.

“Only, you are always so quick to go on about how _exhausted_ Charles has been, and we were _quite loud_ last night-”

“Slept like a dream,” Erik snapped.

“And my room is just above yours, I do believe. Rather, I know it is a _floor_ above yours, but I believe the positioning works out such that the way we treated my bed last night would be quite audible-”

“ _Submariner_.”

Namor jumped from his seat, a skip in his winged heels as he hurried over to the newest arrival to the dining room. T'Challa took his seat at a table, glowering up at Namor as he strode over. But that glower was tempered by something much too pleased, too satisfied, for it to be effective in the slightest.

With a predatory smile Namor slid into the seat alongside T'Challa, foot sliding beneath the table to catch at his ankle. “I was taking _your_ advice,” Namor pointed out.

“Gloating was never my advice.”

With a flick of his wrist Namor tossed a breakfast fruit into his mouth and chewed happily. “No. But you did tell me to be more considerate of my lessers. And apologizing for an interrupted night's sleep surely counts as such.”

“This is not something that can continue...” T'Challa murmured.

Namor raised one elegant eyebrow. “No? Why do I feel it must?”

T'Challa ducked his head, dark skin darkening even further, to Namor's sharp eyes. “At least you could spare my dignity by keeping silent about our... dalliances.”

Growing serious for a moment, Namor leaned into T'Challa, dropping his voice so none would overhear (except perhaps that mutant Xavier, but that couldn't be helped).

“If you so wish it, I would never speak a word again about our companionship.” Namor paused, eyes seeking T'Challa's. After a moment he smiled at what he saw there. “But I think you do not wish it.”

T'Challa sighed. “Perhaps... I do not. But this doesn't mean I find your crowing from every rooftop agreeable.”

“Not every rooftop,” Namor promised him. With that, he leaned in for a swift kiss, taking T'Challa (mostly) by surprise. When they separated, Namor winked at him. “Just Erik's.”

T'Challa didn't even have the chance to stop Namor as he hurried back over to Erik's table. Not that he tried all that hard.

 


End file.
